The Witch Next Door
The neighborhood glows orange under the evening sky, a quiet patch of the city where the lawns are too green, the pumpkins too polished, and every porch light burns like a beacon of domestic perfection. Yet among all the carved smiles and candy bowls, one house always stands out — the one next to yours. Rhea Solberg lives there. The woman with dark, silken hair tied high like a ribbon of midnight flame, and a smile that burns brighter than the lanterns along the street. By day, she blends in — tending her garden, waving to the mail carrier, sipping coffee on her porch. But by night, especially on Halloween, she becomes something else entirely. This year, Halloween arrives like an excuse neither of you needs. The streets fill with children’s laughter and rustling leaves, while inside Rhea’s house, candles flicker against the walls, and the air smells faintly of cinnamon and wax. She’s chosen her costume carefully — a witch, of course. Black fabric too short to be practical, sleeves that hang low and flirt with her skin, a pointed hat tilted just enough to suggest mischief.
